


Your name is...

by saeriibon



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: trigger warning for drowning and kids getting beat up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saeriibon/pseuds/saeriibon
Summary: A little backstory behind one of my D&D characters. You get brownie points for recognizing the Ace Combat reference I put in it.





	Your name is...

It was a sweltering afternoon in the bustling port city. A myriad of ships colored the docks with fluttering standards, each one unique to its respective vessel. However, beyond the sea-worn sailors loading and unloading their cargo, beyond the marketeers hawking their wares, there were the shadowed alleys where the dregs of society laid their claim, protected from the glaring eyes of the sun and city.

“C’mon, Sticks, I know you can do better than this,” A young, cyan-colored tiefling looked disapprovingly at an even younger genasi boy. Wisps of flame occasionally poked through the scarf wrapped around the boy’s head, and the glowing markings on his face flickered as if to convey his embarrassment.

The strange duo shared a narrow alley with two other figures; one was a scrawny half-elf and the other was a figure of short stature, their gender and race unidentifiable from the large plague doctor mask covering their face. In the middle of the group was a handful of copper and silver pieces, haphazardly laid out on an oil-stained rag.

“At this rate, we’ll never be able to make this week’s pay…” Sighed the half-elf.

“Never… make… pay…” The masked one mimicked.

The tiefling clicked her tongue and leaned against the wall behind her, “Well, compared to you, Doc, and me, Sticks hasn’t really been pulling his weight.” She spoke as if the young genasi, “Sticks,” wasn’t even there. He puffed out his cheeks and tried to straighten his posture to challenge her, but ended up losing his balance and landing bottom first onto the cobblestone. Despite the seemingly dire circumstances they were in, the other three chuckled at his blunder. “All right. Listen, Sticks. You can make this one up to us by going on a super special mission, okay?” The tiefling crouched to get at eye-level with Sticks and brought a finger up to her lips, as if to further drive home the secrecy of this “mission.” All the boy could do was lean in and nod his head eagerly, markings flaring in excitement. The tiefling smiled and cupped his ear to whisper whatever it was she intended him to do…

* * *

‘ _Easy_ …’ The genasi nonchalantly tossed a thick, jangling bag between his hands. It was almost as if it were asking to be taken, if so, no one would really be missing it anyway, right? Maybe he could buy himself one of those nice, spiral-shaped pastries if there was enough for him after it got “taxed.” By this point, night had fallen on the city, remnants of the day’s warmth wafting up from the salt-bleached stone streets. Baudy shanties drifted from the various taverns, uplifting the stagnant air. A giddy smile crept onto his face, ‘ _Maybe I’ll take the long way home tonight, see the ships…’_ He took off with a jaunty half-skip, making his way to the now silent docks. 

Ships ranging from humble sloops to impressive galleons swayed and creaked with the waves. The sea breeze was refreshing, beckoning the boy towards the end of one of the empty piers. It was cloudy, making the horizon beyond blend together in a deep, impenetrable indigo. He sighed, taking a seat at the end so his feet dangled above the water, _‘This is a big haul… The others won’t mind if I take my time. Wish I could see the stars, though._ ’ An irregular, scuffling sound mixed with the creaking of wood caught his attention, and before he could turn around, a hand roughly grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him backwards, flinging him across the splintered planks. Though it was dark, he could tell his accoster, or rather, accosters, was a group of about five young men, human as far as he could tell. One of them had a large piece of cloth slung over his shoulder, another pulling a rope taught.

“Think you’re some hot-shot who can nab whatever he wants, huh?” The one who pulled him kicked Sticks’ ribs before he could get up. “You are really fucking stupid, ‘Sticks’,” he spat.

‘ _Huh?’_ Before Sticks could say anything, another kick hit the hand holding the bag, crushing the taught fingers between a steel toe and heavy coinage. His wail was muffled by the rope and he futilely thrashed his malnourished limbs in an effort to ward off his attackers, letting go of the bag in the process.

“Think they call him ‘Sticks’ ‘cause he’s like a candlestick, skinny ‘n weak,” one laughed.

“A hot-head, but what does he think he can burn?” another jeered.

“Real poets, the lot of you…” The one who kicked him grumbled before reaching down and tearing the scarf from Sticks’ head, revealing a wildly shifting mass of flame-like hair. “Fuckin’ freak of nature… Think it’ll die if we drown it?” He said offhandedly to the one with the bag.

 _‘Drown? Everything that drowns dies, idiot… that’s what drowning is._ ’ Even though his life was in jeopardy, Sticks still had the audacity to quibble, albeit mentally, with his soon to be murderers. Still, he continued to struggle as the bag was forced over his head, enveloping his entire body. He felt himself being turned upside down, lifted, carried, thrown… Thrown… Thrown… 

The water was cold and hit like a brick, instantly seeping through the bag. Its salty and putrid embrace filled the boy’s senses as he thrashed against the various haphazard bindings on his wrists, ankles, and mouth. It didn’t help that the fingers on one hand were broken, and it was black as pitch. The bag even smelled like butchered meat, causing him to gag and take in more water. Everything stung and burned and froze, it was like all the descriptions he had ever heard of Hell. ‘ _Well, it was just like the nuns said… naughty children go to hell.._.’

* * *

Memories flashed in his head.

The silhouette of someone leaving through an open doorway.

A small hand clutching a polished stone.

Firecrackers during the summer solstice festival.

A rainy day spent inside a crate, the inside decorated with patterned cloth, chalk drawings, and candles.

A book, words illegible, but pictures expertly crafted of mighty gods and shimmering constellations.

A group of misfits, hanging out behind a bar playing dice.

A sailor describing his first encounter with pirates.

Legends of flowers made of gold and monsters in the deep...

* * *

“...up… Wake up, boy… Wake up!” 

The boy sputtered, expunging the remains of the sea that once threatened to fill his lungs for good. He rubbed his eyes, feeling a large hand heavily pat his back. He swayed a bit, and felt relieved when he felt his scarf gently make contact with his cheeks, not tied properly around his head, but still providing much comfort as it formed a veil around him. He looked up, the dark of night giving way to a sliver of orange on the horizon. Outlined by the light, was a haggard, middle-aged half-elf who stared stoically back at him.

“You’re gonna be alright, boy,” His heavy hand patted the genasi’s shoulder. “You got a name?”

‘ _A name…’_ His mouth clumsily moved, “S… St-” A calloused palm was brought up to his face to halt him.

“Don’t give me none of that ‘Sticks’ crap, that ain’t a name for no one,” the man interrupted. It was clear that the skin on his hand was broken, stained with fresh blood.

The genasi sheepishly looked down, then up again, past the man to the sliver of orange. Seeing his attention was directed elsewhere, the man turned around to look as well. He harrumphed before getting up, joints cracking as he did. The genasi followed so that the two stood together, facing the dawn. Somewhere in the distance, a shorebird trilled a delicate tune. “Aubade… Morning’s coming,” the old man rumbled. The genasi looked up to him as the words left his mouth.

“A… Au… ba…” He tried to copy.

The man’s face broke a little from its stony facade, mirth gracing his features for but a moment. “Guess it’s a better name than ‘Sticks,’ eh?” He turned and began heading down the pier. “If you feel like you’re at a dead end, Aubade, my ship’ll be leavin’ port in another couple of hours,” the man stated without taking the time to stop walking.

‘ _Ship… Leave… A ship… A captain?’_ Resolutely tying his scarf in place, the young boy chased after the retreating figure. ‘ _Aubade… Aubade… My name is… Aubade._ ’ He smiled. Before him, the sun began to cover the city in golden light, refracting off of windows into the streets and illuminating every corner, seen and unseen. The most beautiful sunrise ever.


End file.
